"I think I prefer Calcutta," Jack replied, stolidly. "I'm not used to fogs."
Jimmie regarded him with a critical glance, with a stifled sigh of disappointment. He saw clearly that strange scenes and stirring adventures had failed to work a cure. He expected better things—quite a different result.
"Yes, it's beastly weather," he said; "but you'll stand it all right. You are in uncommonly good condition for a chap who has just pulled through fever and a bullet hole. By Jove! I wish I could have seen you tackling the Afridis—you were mentioned in the papers after that last scrimmage, and they gave you a rousing send-off. You deserve the Victoria Cross, and you would get it if you were a soldier."
"I didn't fight for glory," Jack muttered, bitterly. "I'm the most unlucky beggar alive."
Jimmie looked at him curiously.
"You don't mean to say," he asked, "that you were hankering for an Afridi bullet or spear in your heart?"
"It's the best thing that could have happened. They tell me I bear a charmed life, and I believe it's true. I never expected to come back, if you want to know."
"I'm sorry to hear you say that, old man. You need cheering up. Have you any luggage besides that bag?"
"I sent the rest on to the Universe office."
"Then come to my rooms—you know you left a lot of clothes and other stuff there. You can fix up a bit, and then we'll go out and have a good feed."